


Predictability

by simplemelodies



Series: A Bad Love Like This [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: How Do I Tag, M/M, Such Great Heights, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplemelodies/pseuds/simplemelodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Fall of year eleven, John Watson attends a party in a feeble attempt to rid his mind of the thoughts of his previous summer at his grandfather's cabin with his father and the Holmes's. This is his effort at release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predictability

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third in a series of (out-of-order) stories involving the summers between John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes's years seven through twelve. Please forgive any mistakes, for I am not from the UK and therefore I am absolutely horrid at the customs. Thank you to Lucy (pawtal on tumblr, and Pawtal on AO3) for bearing with me and teaching as much as she can, and for inspiring this little project. You're forever a little shit, but who cares. Also, for Tirzah (gingercult on tumblr and shippingjohnlock on AO3) for the constant encouragement. I couldn't ask for a better best friend.   
> I really do wish you enjoy this little piece.   
> C.J.

Fall 2011

_I don’t want to need you_.

John screamed these words inside his head, pulled at the locks containing his need just to be sure they were secure.

_I can’t need you._

Because he didn’t want to, he couldn’t be tied down, would never let himself be let down the way he knew he would.

_Don’t make me_.

But he knew he was in too deep, and that this past summer was just the beginning. So as he sipped his beer and stared across the crowded room, a silent resignation began to settle over him.

John Watson was a dead man walking; a dead man with too many limbs threatening to fall off, actually; a dead man who was just a tad bit more than a little attracted to brains. John Watson could be a zombie, considering his current mental state.

Because John was distracted and frankly he did not care one bit; and he was so distracted, actually, that he almost failed to miss the eyes that met his from the recliner against the wall. Bodies swept in and out of his line of vision, but the gaze was anything but avoidable.

Attached to a lean face, the green eyes seemed to call him from his stupor, pull John to where they were. The eyes were raking his body in an attempt to discern the teenager’s intentions, but failing.

John smirked, and winked. Because this was a party and who cared if he hooked up for once? John certainly didn’t. So he shut his eyes for a moment before sauntering over to the figure in the chair.

“John.” He played a smile across his lips, a bit shy, a bit forward, a bit of both because he wanted to have some action and didn’t want to waste any time.

The face in front of him grinned back—a bit too obvious, really. “Danny.”

And they were walking to the back yard, because it was quieter back there and there were less people to get in the way. When they’d finally reached the outside, John grabbed Danny’s shoulders and shoved him against the fence that lay just to the side of the door.

“Oi. Normally I’d ask you to buy me a drink first,” a smirked played on the ginger boy’s face, “but you don’t seem like the type to—”

And Danny was right, because John wasn’t the type to buy the drink first, or really even to buy one at all. And because he wasn’t, John decided to shut those thin lips with his own and get on with it.

John couldn’t breathe—he was drowning in the thought and the feel of another human, and he wanted to submerge himself in the essence of the being in front of him. He wanted to fight off the demon sitting on his shoulder.

So he snogged the hell out of Danny, pulling his thin bottom lip in between his teeth, eliciting a slight gasp from the shorter boy. John smirked once again and ran his lips down his neck, to the collar of a dark t-shirt that he didn’t necessarily care for. And then it was a blur of skin and kisses and pale hair and fingers and _god_ John needed this to be somewhere besides the crowded lawn of his cousin’s house.

David—or was is Dale—or… _whoever_ , John decided—seemed to think along the same lines, because he was pushing John back and staring at him with a flushed face and even thought their faces were separated, John could feel the pressure in the boy’s pants. “There’s a basement,” John muttered.

And they were off to find some place more private and to…well…maybe do a tad more than a lot of kissing. From then, it really was just the rush of getting off. John could remember legs and arms and awkward positions and cold concrete and at some point he obtained a distinct bite mark that would not go away for weeks.

When all was said (when really there were no words at all—besides the occasional instructions, of course) and done (oh, please) the party was winding down and Dylan, or Dave, or _whoever_ was slipping a number into the pocket of John’s jeans.

A “call me” wasn’t even necessary, for John was sure that he would “accidentally” “forget”, and wash his trousers.

So he walked home that night sated and a little more annoyed than he thought he’d be. The few flat beers he’d had after didn’t really help his mood, not at all. And the thought of “did I really just blow a bloke in a basement” seemed to be in the forefront of his mind. Not that he minded, really. It was nothing worse than what he’d thought of doing for weeks now; not a bit raunchier than the ideas that swam around in his head at night—every night—since those piercing eyes had last looked at him five weeks back.

Oh, John Watson was in over his head.

And he did not care, did not mind—or so he told himself. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he was worried what would happen come Monday morning when it got out that he snogged a guy at Maureen Watson’s party. That would not be good, not one bit.

Grinning, though, John stepped into his flat and closed the door behind him. It was well after one in the morning, but he didn’t necessarily care. His father was gone on a business trip for the weekend and he had the house all to himself.

And then a thought dawned on him and he was too slow to stop himself before he had the paper out and ready to dial.

_“Danny here,”_ was the answering voice.

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Danny. Hey this is John. Wondered if you wanted to come to my place tonight—Pop’s away and it was fun ton—”

_“Ah, yeah._ ” Though he sounded a bit wary. _“Address?”_

“Okay, sure. Got a pen?”


End file.
